


Shear

by keelywolfe



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dark, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>In T.A. 2770, Smaug the Dragon destroyed the Kingdom Under the Mountain. Dwarves fleeing from this disaster settled in Dunland.</i> (Source: J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings, Appendix A, "Durin's Folk" via tolkiengateway)</p>
<p> </p>
<p><i>The young Dwarf prince took work where he could find it, laboring in the villages of Men. </i> (Source, The Hobbit: AUJ)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shear

**Author's Note:**

> shear: SHi(ə)r  
> verb  
> 1\. cut the wool off (a sheep or other animal).  
> 2\. break off or cause to break off, owing to a structural strain.
> 
> noun  
> 1\. a strain in the structure of a substance produced by pressure, when its layers are laterally shifted in relation to each other.

* * *

It had not been his fault; Thorin had learned quickly in the towns of Men to hold his tongue still and his pride within. Grossly outnumbered meant he was equally outmatched and Men were not known for their leniency towards those who were not of their kind. 

The fault had not been his, the same as it had not been through any fault of his own that a dragon had come to Erebor, that he and his people were lowered to this, taking makeshift work wherever he could, camping outside of town so that each coin he earned might stretch as far as possible. 

Fault, no, he did not accept fault; blame, however, the blame was on his shoulders, would be, and tomorrow when the others were packing their tents yet again, loading their weary ponies as they made their way to yet another town where others would look at them with suspicious eyes, he would be to blame. For not gritting his teeth when he should, not biting his tongue, for not walking away faster, a list of wrongs to lay at his feet and tomorrow when he was astride his pony, every ache churning within him at every plodding step would be a reminder.

His other reminder was far more visceral but it was one that he would mostly see only in the eyes of others. 

The taste of blood lingered in his mouth no matter how many times he spat, tinny and thin. Thorin walked grimly on, staggered on, his booted feet carrying him forward one step at a time. He counted himself lucky, if he had any luck at all, that his legs were unwounded, that he could at least walk. The arm he had cradled against his chest had a badly sprung wrist; he could feel the swelling beneath his cautious grip, and his shoulder throbbed along with his heartbeat. 

Through the darkness, he saw the campfires, dotting the landscape with their glowing welcome and though he could reach them in minutes if he walked quickly, longer if he was forced to shuffle along as he had, Thorin hesitated, leaning briefly against a tree as he gathered himself. 

They would know as soon as they saw him, his shame would be visible to all and sundry. For a moment, panic threatened to choke him, thick and sour at the back of his throat, his stomach threatening to rebel and Thorin swallowed back the urge to vomit, forcing his feet to move. He was of the line of Durin, he would hide from no one, no Man and certainly not from his own people. 

Another step, another, carrying him closer and Thorin could hear low conversations, see the night watch as they made their circles around the campsite. His tent and his father's were in the middle of camp and that position of honor brought a grimly amused smile to Thorin's bitten lips, and he licked at the fresh trickle of blood that escaped from it. That honor would lead him to walk directly through camp, the better for all to see him. 

Not his fault and still, he had himself to blame, and how was it that with so many of his transgressions, the punishment so far outweighed the misdeed?

He managed to skirt the guard, waiting for a likely gap to stride into camp and even with his wounds aching, his feet hardly able to carry him further, Thorin reminded himself to have harsh words for all those who stood watch, for if a wounded Dwarf could sneak into camp unnoticed, they would all as soon be murdered in their beds if Orcs sought them out. 

Thorin did not look around, kept his chin as high as he could manage, his stride as steady, though he heard the first stifled gasp. He did not look, did not speak, only walked on, ignoring low murmurs of horror and he did not need to see their expressions to imagine them. Weakness crept into his knees, threatening to send him to the ground and Thorin refused it any purchase. He had walked from the town of Men, bearing his own weight and shame this far; he would see this task done. 

His tent was within sight, the worn canvas bearing the ragged flag of Erebor, the raven tattered and proud. At the campfire beside it, Thorin could see the outline of those sitting around it; Balin's shape familiar enough to be recognized, his brother next to him, and though his eyes were swelling, Thorin could still see well enough to note that his father was not amongst them. The relief nearly spilled him to the ground after all and it was a near giddiness that carried him the rest of the way, allowed him to ignore the startled curse from Dwalin as he came into sight, the shock that drained expression from Balin's broad face. Thorin ignored it all, ducked into the safety of his tent and only then did he allow himself the luxury of collapse. 

His bedroll was against the far wall, away from the entrance, and so it was the ground that cradled him at first, hard and unyielding, but better than being borne on his own feet. For long moments, he lay there, feeling every bruise, every cut, his swollen wrist still held tight and that would need bandaged, perhaps even set though to his own numbed touch he had not felt any broken bones. 

He lay until the cold in the ground began to sink its own teeth into him and only then did Thorin struggle up to his knees, nearly crawling over to his dwindling collection of belongings. His tools were lost to him now, Thorin realized abruptly with an emotionless sense of weariness, and he was distantly grateful he'd not taken his sword. Whatever protection it might have offered was mitigated by the fact that it would have likely been lost to him as well. 

On the rotting wooden plank that served as his table was the remnants of a candle and Thorin lit it clumsily with his good hand, its pitiful light filling the tent as he knelt by his rucksack. Tucked carefully beneath his meager collection of clothing, well-wrapped in a cloth, was a mirror and Thorin pulled it free. He forced himself not to hesitate as he unwound the wrapper and looked. 

The low, wounded sound that escaped his throat would perhaps better suit an injured animal, a dog lowered to its belly in the dirt. It was far from a sound that any son of a king should be allowed to make, and yet it escaped him nonetheless as he looked, his wide, bruise-ringed eyes taking in his own reflection as his numbness finally left him and he saw.

* * *

When the Men had begun to shout drunkenly at him, Thorin had only held his tongue, shifted his bag of tools higher on his shoulder as he locked his bitter, furious words behind his teeth and kept walking. They were drunk, he reminded himself, drunk and foolish, and he would take the blame for any brawl they began. 

Even when they followed him, hurling insults about his parentage, bland, imperfect abuses that spoke only of generalities, for these fools knew neither his name nor his line. Only drunken idiots and Thorin had ignored it as he had learned, the few coins in his pocket could not be spared to repair any damages a fight might cause. Their shouts were raucous, their insults trying to spur even a word from him.

The hand that had caught clumsily on his arm was not so easily shrugged away, along with its slurred words, "A quiet one, are you?" 

The temptation to simply break the fingers attached to that hand was only just subdued, and Thorin had glared up at its owner, taking in his rotting teeth and the ale-soaked breath that came with it. "Take your hand from me," Thorin said, low, gritting it out through his own teeth.

Unruly laughter rose and it was only then that Thorin saw that others had joined the few that had begun this, ten of them, perhaps more, and he touched the knife hidden in his sleeve carefully, tightening his grip on his bag. Better that this ended without blood but he would do as he must. 

"It does speak!" the bold one called to his companions and his leer exposed more blackened teeth. "You're a pretty one. Are you a boy or a girl, I wonder? Never could tell with you lot. What say you, lads!" he shouted to the growing crowd, "Shall we see if they've a cock or a quoint beneath their skirts?"

"Does it matter?" Another called back and Thorin palmed his blade, baring his teeth in a sneer.

"Don't suppose it does," he chuckled, watery eyes gleaming, "Care to earn a coin?" He leaned down, the foulness of his reeking breath as bad as the stink of any goblin as he whispered, "Whatever parts you have, you've a pretty mouth and I hear Dwarves like to earn gold however they may."

The words were no more than the lewd invitation of a drunken fool but the rage that rose in Thorin from it, the words that painted not only him but the entirety of his people as whores, unfettered his tongue and that was his downfall. 

"I would sooner bed a troll," Thorin snarled out, striking his hand away. "As would any if you are so desperate you must seek out those who merely pass you on the street. Your gold would stink as much as you. Go and lay with the swine, if you're so eager. You'd have much in common."

He spat into his surprised face, following it with blow that sent the Man to his knees, blood streaming, and that was the moment, his one chance to run. The others were shocked into stillness, silent as they stared at the Man moaning on his knees, clutching at his gushing nose. A single moment, come and lost, and he had only the time to lash out twice more, striking down two of them before the rest were upon him. 

The knife was taken from him first, by accident, as he managed to sink it deeply into one Man's arm and his squeals of pain echoed that of the swine Thorin had named them. His tools were a weapon of the own, swung hard and the Man he struck fell heavily to the ground, moaning. If he was wounded, Thorin had no time to see it. 

They had him down, dragging him to the ground by limbs and hair, and wretchedly drunk as they are, they were strong and while Thorin could best a half-dozen Men, he could not hope to take twice that many. They were not skilled but they were heavy, pinning him at the wrists and ankles, sprawling over his chest and even as he struggled, beneath their swearing and spitting, he could hear their laughter. Laughing at him, at his helplessness, and he fought all the harder, straining uselessly. 

In the end, it was the hard, warning pressure of a knee between his legs that stilled him, and he looked up at the black sky, tasting the bright iron of his own blood and breathing hard as he waited for what pain would come. He would endure it, whatever they did, Thorin swore silently, blanking his thoughts. He would endure and he would take his retribution from every one of these Men. 

Fingers bit into his chin, gripping his beard and forcing his head to turn. To meet the angry face of the first one and the fresh blood dripping down his face was grim satisfaction, at least.

"His mouth is still free," one of them panted out and Thorin bared his teeth in offering. He might be slaughtered in the street for it, but anything that one of these foul creatures offered him would be spat back at them. 

Even a drunken fool had some little sense and that one only shook his head, his voice clotted and snotty from the blood still flowing from his nose, "I'd like to keep my cock where it is. He, is it?"

The hand gripping Thorin's beard twisted and he refused to cry out, did not so much as narrow his eyes as he glared his hatred of these Men to the one that seemed determined to torment him. Then the grip loosened, allowing his head to fall back into the mud and Thorin was left blinking, warily, as he was met with another black-toothed grin. 

"No, lads, there's no real harm done, is there?" The Man licked his blood-flecked teeth. "We'll send him back to his Folk, I think. But first—" 

Even through the grunts of the Men still pinning him down, the roar of his own heartbeat, Thorin heard the threatening hiss of a knife clearing a leather sheath and he tensed, bracing himself for a cut, a strike, the press of a blade against vulnerable skin.

Instead, there was only a faint tug against his scalp and a low, tearing sound like the shredding of rope before something light and tufted tickled at his nose, his eyes nearly crossing as he tried to focus and saw…his own braid, dangling from the Man's hand as he hung it over Thorin's face. 

"Think I'll have a souvenir first," the Man laughed, flipping the braid jauntily through his filthy fingers before stuffing into a pocket, the beaded end hanging out. He held up his knife, twirling it with drunken dexterity as he called, "Who else wants one?"

His breath, stuttered from the weight of Man on his chest and his own disbelieving shock, rose again as Thorin renewed his struggles, fighting with the strength of desperation and almost he wrenched an arm free, the pain of his shoulder leaving the socket dim beneath the brilliance of his panic. The blade flashed again, tight pressure against his scalp and in that moment Thorin betrayed his own vow of silence, his voice rising in a scream.

* * *

The reflection that looked back at him with bruise-ringed eyes was not his own. It could not be, the pupils more black than blue, dilated into darkness and the hair…his hair. His pride, untouched by anything fiercer than a comb his entire life. His hair was little more than a scraping of stubble in places, falling in wild hanks in others. More scraped to the scalp than not and there were rusty streaks littering the moon-pale skin, clotted cuts where the knife had glanced too close. 

They parceled out his hair in ragged handfuls, shearing him as though he were a particularly loud and ill-tempered sheep and he had screamed until his voice gave, coughing flecks of blood. He remembered the feel of a boot settling at his temple to keep him still, pressing his face into the mud until he was gagging on it and still, he could hear their laughter, remember the endless tug and tear of his hair being cut away from him. 

The boot holding him down became a kick in the end, dazing him, and he only dimly remembered being left, one filthy thumb pressing briefly between his parted lips, stroking the taste of dirt and blood lightly across his tongue. 

"A shame, though," whispered in a raspy laugh, and teeth sank into his ear, drawing out a startled whimper, "You do have a pretty mouth."

He'd drifted then, caught between wakefulness and not, and when he finally returned to himself, the moon had shifted in the sky. With the last of his strength, Thorin managed to get to his feet, unsurprised to find his weapon and his tools gone, and he'd staggered out of the town, towards the camp and the feeble protection of that which was not his home. 

The sound of his tent door being thrown open made him flinch and Thorin drew back in an irrational surge of panic, scrabbling back, awkward on one hand. His father stood just inside, his eye shadowed in the darkness and Thorin ducked his head, did not meet his eyes as his father moved slowly to crouch before him. 

"Are you hurt?" Thrain asked him first and Thorin only stared at the tips of father's boots, tracing the worn sigil embossed into the steel with his eyes. 

"Are you?" his father demanded and that voice was one he'd been taught to obey since birth. 

"No, sir," Thorin said finally, low. 

A strong hand caught his chin, firmly pulling his head up and Thorin couldn't bite back his startled cry of pain, clutching his arm tighter against his chest as his wrist was jolted. 

His father harrumphed loudly. "Aye, you certainly seem right enough. Let me see that."

"I am fine," Thorin did not cringe, he was a prince of Erebor whether or not it was lost, whether or not he was shorn, and a prince did not cringe. Nor did he flinch, he only...leaned away, unwilling to allow his father to at probe his arm.

"I was not asking." Thrain took his arm in both hands, his touch gentle. Inspecting his swollen wrist, testing the bones, then lifting at the elbow until Thorin choked off a cry. He settled the arm back down, his hands shifting to the shoulder, his fingers light. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

No. Thorin did not say, closing his eyes as his father's fingers dug lightly into the joints. No, he did not want to talk about it, did not want to think about it, did not want to remember a brutal knee between his legs, others kneeling atop his chest, and coarse laughter, nor the moment his fierce anger turned to blind panic, the scrape of a blade close to his scalp, and the fluttering fall of shorn hair past his wild eyes.

Thrain only hummed softly at his silence, nimbly binding Thorin's wrist before looping a torn piece of cloth around his neck. It was from one of his father's shirts, Thorin saw, and he bit his already sore lips hard enough to taste a fresh wash of blood as his father settled his arm into the makeshift sling. Then, he shifted back and Thorin expected his father to leave the tent, to leave him here with his shame.

Instead, he startled to feel a large, warm hand settle on the nape of his neck, drawing him close until his face was pressed lightly against his father's chest. The other hand settled on his head, broad fingers lightly stroking the ragged, cropped hair.

"It's all right, my son," Thrain told him, softly. His fingers were gentle, warm, tender against bruises and cuts as he soothed the lingering ache, "It will be all right."

His injured arm was caught between them, bound, and Thorin's other arm did not reach fully around his father's bulk. Still, Thorin found himself leaning into his father's embrace, his fist clutching a handful of Thrain's threadbare shirt as he buried his face into his father's belly like he might have done as a child, buried his shame and his helpless tears alike.

"Father," Thorin choked out, low, a fresh wash of tears escaping, and he could not tell Thrain of his fear, the horror of it as he realized what they intended, the deliberate insult of it as he'd struggled beneath the weight of a scattered dozen Men pinning him down. His face half-buried in the mud, spitting and choking on filth and they had laughed, oh, they had _laughed_ when the knife jerked through his other long braid and again he had dangled it before Thorin's enraged eyes before tucking it into his pocket with the first, his _souvenirs_. Stealing from him even the aglet at the end, a gift from his grandfather on the day he'd been named heir. Another piece of the past, of Erebor, lost to him. 

His father only went on with that soft, calming hum, as though he knew without Thorin speaking a word. His strong hands were gentle against Thorin's aching scalp, soothing away the pain as best he could. Thorin leaned heavily against his father, his ear tight to his belly and he could hear his droning hum inwardly and out, mingling with the heavy, low thrum of his heartbeat. Words joined in, Thorin noted, sleepily, his father's familiar voice rumbling beneath his ear as he whispered to him. "It's all right, my son, my boy. I have you. It will be all right, you will be all right. I have you, my son. I do."

Thrain only held him close, humming tunelessly, a low, deep song of comfort, one thumb sweeping through the hot wetness spilling down Thorin's cheek. Petting his son's poor, shorn scalp gently as Thrain crooned his sympathy and love, a gentle song that had been Thorin's for all his life. 

-finis-


End file.
